


Eyes Kindled in the Dark

by fruitdesel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Forced Sex, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mind Games, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitdesel/pseuds/fruitdesel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Sauron tries to force information from Finrod by using his history with the House of Bëor against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Kindled in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



They had been so long in the dark that Beren could tell a new day had come only when one of his companions was seized, and eaten. Beren was given a small ration of water each day; Finrod had nothing, and accepted nothing from Beren. Their hands were restrained in front of them with heavy irons, forcing them to hold their forearms together, as if they were always begging, and they had been stripped of all their garments. Finrod was sometimes taken away, perhaps for hours, and when he was returned, his skin was clammy. Afterwards, he rested his head on Beren’s shoulder, breathing deeply, and Beren knew it was to keep him from losing hope.

On the ninth day, two of Sauron’s creatures laid their clawed hands on Finrod and Beren, and they were pulled outside. Beren was blinded by torchlight, too weak and dizzy to walk, and he was dragged through stairways teeming with fell things that gibbered mockery at him as they passed. At last, Beren was released, and he collapsed to his knees in a room which seemed a cruel echo of Nargothrond’s main hall. Wolves, walking on four legs and two, paced along the walls, snarling from each shadow.

Beren wanted to fight, but he had no strength left. Finrod fought, striking out with his teeth like a beast himself, until he was wrestled face-down to the floor and his captor pressed a foot to the top of his back, cutting off Finrod’s air until he choked and stilled. Before them was a roiling knot of darkness that slowly unwound into the form of Sauron, taller even than Thingol and with the light of Valinor reflected in the banked fires of his eyes. 

“Do you recognize where you used to rule, Felagund?” Sauron’s voice was like a musical chord, three different notes struck at once.

“I only see a kennel, squatted in by a neutered dog,” Finrod replied, glaring upwards.

Sauron stooped next to him and drew his fingers through Finrod’s hair, his nails lightly scraping against his scalp.

“The advantage to not being subject to the myriad squalid desires of the Eldar is that I’ve never been led by my cock and balls, unlike you. I might have saved myself from our tiresome arguments if only I had remembered sooner why there were so many Finwës crawling over Tirion. I had thought you better than your kin.” As the creature above Finrod pushed on his lungs, Sauron leaned closer, until his mouth was only inches from Finrod’s ear. “Spreading your legs for Men will not get you any sons, but they would not have stood to inherit much, even so.”

When Sauron withdrew, so did his servant, allowing Finrod to breathe freely at last. His face was briefly misshapen by rage that Beren had not thought to ever see on someone otherwise so kind, and he did not think too long on Sauron’s lies.

“You are only shaming yourself,” said Finrod, sitting back on his heels.

Sauron smiled, his mouth suddenly too wide for his face. “That would require the sense of honour I was freed from before your father ever woke up by that foetid pond. The whelp you brought with you was sired by Barahir, was he not? They are alike, and otherwise you would not fawn on him, even if you may have been moved to help some other fool.”

“I have not said who I am.”

“There is no need. You will give me what I want, else I will extinguish Barahir’s line before your stubborn eyes. Why are you abroad in enemy lands?”

“Even an insult would give you too much pleasure,” Finrod said.

“Findaráto, your cousin was much better at being a prisoner, and he still told me more than he ever knew.” Watching Sauron change his shape raised Beren’s hackles, as he shrank and shifted into an unfamiliar Elf, with gold threaded into his plaits. “I straddled him like this until he ran out of useful things to say, and went on to share trivialities about the colour of Fëanor’s shutters.”

“Liar.”

“Not today. Come here, little one.” The Elf’s body seemed to slough away when Sauron reached forward and grabbed Beren by the neck, picking him up as a child might a wooden soldier. Beren found enough strength to struggle while Finrod was the one to cry out in pain. The beast holding him back from aiding Beren had dug its claws into his shoulders, drawing blood. Sauron’s arm felt unyielding as a mountainside. He wrapped his other arm around Beren, crushing him to his chest while he forced his tongue past Beren’s teeth. Close as they were, Sauron smelled like the air before a lightning strike, just as Lúthien did. Sauron bit down, sinking a pair of fangs into the inside of his lower lip. The pain was like being pinched, lasting a few seconds before it faded into a dangerous numbness and Sauron dropped him.

The shame of meekly lying down throbbed through Beren’s veins like a second poison. He could hold himself up on all fours, but go no further. Blood dripped from his mouth and splattered onto the floor.

“Now, for a puzzle easily solved by the Friend of Men,” Sauron said. “I will stop the venom’s flow if you, with your bound hands, can bring him to completion.”

As if he were in the distance, he heard Finrod speaking another language, fast and harsh. Sauron replied in the same, ending in laughter. It was awful to be used in a fight he did not understand, and Beren felt a fresh surge of pity for bringing Finrod into his own. Beren fell on his side while the floor rose to cradle his face. He wanted to sleep for years.

Someone was touching his hip. “Beren, please. You must turn over,” Finrod said, his voice gentle again, “even if you believe he will not keep his word.”

Beren had not thought of what Sauron wanted from them until Finrod spoke of it. “I would rather die than be disloyal,” Beren replied.

“Death is a greater betrayal than this one.”

He would die before Lúthien regardless. They had been chaste with each other, fearing to bind themselves too closely when there was a chance they could be parted. Beren had loved no one else.

“I do not even know what is being asked of me,” Beren confessed.

“It is nothing I have not done willingly before,” said Finrod, and that brought a low chuckle from Sauron. “I am so sorry to have to take this from you.”

Finrod’s tenderness eased some of Beren’s distress. He rolled onto his back with effort, making the ceiling spin above his head before he could focus on Finrod’s face. His father had told him not to fear how strange and fierce the Noldor seemed, and that the brightness of their eyes was from the Lords of the West themselves. Starvation and imprisonment had diminished Finrod not at all, though Beren could see how much pain Sauron had wrought inside him.

Sauron took a seat on what had once been Finrod’s throne. “My spies in Nargothrond told me yesterday how Bëor hardly left your bed, and that you seduced Barahir when he was barely into manhood. And they were not the only ones.”

The truth of Sauron’s words were confirmed by how stricken Finrod was. “You understand none of it.”

Neither did Beren. Finrod was so noble, and yet now Beren could not drive the thought from his head of how Sauron had described Finrod as spreading his legs. Had he loved Beren’s father? Or was he merely a replacement for Bëor the Old?

“Animal rutting, and nothing more.” Sauron’s eyes scraped over Beren’s body, as if he could flay him with his glance. “How long were you planning to wait before taking this one? He is well-formed, for his kind.”

“Were you?” Beren asked.

“No.” Finrod shook his head. “No.”

The venom had not ceased its work while they spoke, and now it took a crushing grip on his heart, forcing the air from his chest. He could not even cry out until it released him, and when he did, it sounded like a sob.

“I believe he is dying,” Sauron remarked.

“Do what you must,” said Beren, closing his eyes. The agony was fading now, but it would come again.

Soft hair brushed over Beren’s thighs. Should he think of Lúthien, or no one? Finrod nudged Beren’s legs further apart with his head, and Beren began to stiffen. He was humiliated by how quickly his body responded, as if it would do the same for anyone. Then he briefly felt Finrod’s tongue lap at the underside of his prick and before Beren could grasp the obscenity of it, he took Beren’s already half-hard length into his mouth. Beren grimaced and tried not to make a sound, knowing they were being observed. Nothing Beren had done to himself compared to being sucked to fullness. Finrod never ceased using his tongue, and wrenched a moan from Beren against his will. The doubt Sauron had sown inside him had Beren wondering whether Finrod seemed eager because they were running out of time, or because it was what he had already desired. Beren looked downwards, and though Finrod’s hair hid most of what was being done, his eyes were tightly shut. But then he could not turn away again, for seeing Finrod’s lips wrapped around him was such a hideously guilty pleasure. He told himself it would go quicker if he watched, and he hoped it would not prove a lie.

On the edge of his vision, he could see Sauron resting his chin on his hand, as if they were boring him. His disinterest made it worse that he had decided _this_ would break their spirits. Sauron was not wrong; he was drawing out what darkness and privation had not, and Beren craved more. Beren came while the poison still throbbed under his skin. Finrod gagged and pulled away, spitting out as much as he could, but the irons made it hard for him to wipe his mouth, which glistened.

“That must have drained you. Here is your cure,” Sauron said, and held a flask to Beren’s lips. Beren drank greedily, the sweet liquor restoring the feeling to his mouth, though it smarted where Sauron had bitten him, and he felt strong enough to stand.

“You’ve turned making love into torture,” Finrod said.

“Censor your euphemisms; I have no care for what you think churns your blood.” Sauron let Beren go and reached down to pull Finrod up by the hair, forcing him to support his weight on his toes. Finrod never showed any fear, though he looked at Sauron with utter disgust. Sauron dragged his free hand down Finrod’s side, leaving a trail of oil behind. Then he moved his hand between Finrod's legs, and Beren turned his head. “You should know how long I have endured the ghost of your presence in these walls,” Sauron said, his voice taking on a growl, “how many times Nargothrond has thwarted me, and then when I had given up on you ever having the stupidity to enter Taur-nu-Fuin, you came with the very engine of your doom. If I thought it would make you suffer more, I would rape you myself, you benighted fool. But I will leave that to your latest mortal, and then I will put you back in the prison where you will die.”   

The irons suddenly slipped off Beren’s arms, and he heard Finrod’s fall with a clang. Sauron shoved Finrod forward hard enough to make him stumble. Beren caught him, reminded for a moment of when Finrod had comforted him in the cell.

“If your vigour fails you, Beren, I may rip out your heart and make Nóm eat it.”

“Do you still want to live?” Finrod asked.

“I must.”

“I have long felt that is the only way to answer the question,” he said, seeming to smile. Finrod had borne more than anyone else since they had been brought to Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and now Beren would have to take his turn at being Sauron’s whip.

He was so mired in shame, he had little response when Finrod gently guided him to the floor and began to stroke him. His mind had nowhere to dwell that Sauron had not already befouled.

“How can I make you desire this?” Finrod said.

Beren would despise himself if he did, but Lúthien would forgive him. He thought of her when they had parted in Menegroth, how she had kissed him in full sight of the court with all the promised peace that had been missing from Beren’s life since the ruin of Dorthonion. Remembering her, he pressed his lips to Finrod’s, who stiffened in shock before he yielded. Finrod’s mouth tasted bitter instead of sweet, and he sighed when he felt Beren’s tongue. There was no tenderness in the possessive way Finrod returned the kiss, as if he would make Beren ignore everything but him. Beren’s body betrayed him, as willing as if he had not just finished a few minutes ago. Finrod tugged Beren on top of him, whispering that Beren was doing nothing wrong, that he was being brave and nothing could take the goodness out of him. Beren hid his head against Finrod’s neck as Finrod opened his legs and soothingly ran his hands down Beren’s back. When Beren first tried to push inside, he found Finrod already slickened by Sauron’s fingers.

“I would not have thought anyone was too big for you, but he is rather unfortunately over-endowed,” Sauron observed, keen to degrade them both.

“You’re filth,” Finrod replied.

Finrod was so tight that it hurt Beren to enter him. He made no sound other than his shallow breathing, though his hand on Beren’s backside shook when he pulled him closer. Beren could not hold back a groan when he was fully seated, and the sudden understanding of how his ancestors must have wanted Finrod in the same way made Beren feel sickened by himself. Since Finrod did not tell him to slow, Beren quickened his pace, as much for his own need as to end it sooner. Beren saw that Finrod was starting to become aroused himself, worsening Beren’s guilt and confusion. One thrust made Finrod gasp and cover his mouth, and no mere ache would have driven him to that.

Yet Beren felt no closer to the end while Sauron’s threat echoed through his mind. “Help me finish,” Beren pleaded.

“Move like you did before,” Finrod said, and Beren knew exactly what he asked. Finrod cried out in unmistakable pleasure this time, allowing both Beren and Sauron to see what he would rather have disguised. It was the worst violation yet, for Finrod to have to perform for them. Beren hated how much Finrod could stir him after he had promised himself to Lúthien, though a more loyal man than he would have been dead.

There was no way to keep track of how long it took Beren, torn as he was between loathing what he did and drinking in how Finrod writhed underneath him. When Beren failed again and again to climax, Finrod abased himself further, telling Beren how much he wanted every inch of his body with words so obscene only Beren’s own language sufficed. At last, Beren spilled, exhausted and trembling, clutching Finrod to him in pure relief. Finrod had enough sympathy to wrap his arms around Beren and kiss his sweating temple.

“Return them to their cell,” Sauron said. His face revealed neither triumph nor frustration as they were carried away, but he would not have let them go without attaining what he sought. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some thoughts:
> 
> 1\. Sauron is like, 8 ft tall (that is roughly 2.5 meters, for people who use the metric system!). 
> 
> 2\. Beren has a huge dick! Whoops. Maybe Sauron's is bigger? 
> 
> 3\. Sauron calls Finrod by every name of his except Finrod. Unless you wanna count Ingoldo but I don't.
> 
> 4\. Take the Fingon cameo however you want to.
> 
> 5\. Yep the chapter title is a _Silmarillion_ quote.


End file.
